


First Time

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP about John and Sherlock's first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atlinmerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Atlinmerrick).



> Disclaimers: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.  
> Author's Notes: Not betad or brit-picked, so be warned.

He'd expected it to hurt. He knew the mechanics of it, knew there was pleasure to be had. Knew the physiological reasons for the pleasure. But that was the doctor in him. The man just didn't see how it bloody well wasn't going to hurt. To be sure, he was OK with the hurting. He'd endured worse for far less payoff. Knew it would get better with practice, knew the endorphins would help mask the physical pangs.

So he lay in the middle of his bed on all fours, trying to relax, knowing that the tension would only make things worse. And Sherlock was trying to help. He was gliding his long fingers up and down John's sweaty spine. He was rubbing soothing circles into the small of his back. He was even talking to him in that low, lovely voice. Rumbled "you're beautiful", "you're lovely", "you smell so good", "I love you" , "God I love you". It had surprised John, not the talking per se, but the tenderness of the words. He knew it wouldn't always be like this, wouldn't always want it to be, but for now it was...it was good.

"Breathe, John." accompanied by a slick finger stroking the rim of his opening. Massaging it really, and,Christ, but that felt good. He knew stimulation of the prostate would bring him pleasure in this, but he was surprised at how sensitive he was there, just at the rim. He eased a bit, unclenching the cheeks of his ass a bit, spreading his legs. He wanted that finger to have room to work its magic. The rubbing got firmer, pushing a bit, pushing some of the ridiculous amount of lube Sherlock had used into his hole. He felt the tip of that finger slip in, slip out, back in. And that was good, too.

A bit further each time until he'd taken the whole length of that finger in.

"Are you OK?"

"Yes. Yes." Deep breath. "I'm fine...I'm good." Smiling. "I'm very good. Now move, Sherlock."

He heard a huff of breath and felt compliance twisting inside him. He'd loved those goddamned long fingers for ages. He thought he knew why now. Felt one brush the gland inside him and saw white. He just managed to stop himself from whimpering when that finger pulled almost all the way out, until he felt a second join it. One tip inside, another caressing the rim. Sherlock was rotating his hand, those fingers swirling him open millimeter by millimeter. The second fingertip slid inside. There was a sense of stretching, but no real pain. The fingers inched further into him, curled up against his prostate as a reward. His head fell forward, forehead on the mattress. The fingers spread a bit, stretching him open, slipping in to brush sporadically over that nub. Keeping the pleasure foremost in his mind. A mind he was quickly losing.

He appreciated the care he was being given, but he couldn't take much more of this. The erection he'd started losing when he'd turned onto his stomach was back with a vengeance. He opened his eyes, looked back down along his body. Saw his cock hard up against his abdomen, red, leaking. He wanted to touch, to grip, but knew this would all be over if he did. Bit his lip instead, nearly drawing blood.

"Sherlock, please. Faster, you've got to go faster."

"No." Too calm voice, damn the man. "No, I won't hurt you, John."

 

"I'm not hurting you idiot. I'm dying here. If you don't get inside me soon, I'm going to come without you. Don't you do that to me, Sherlock Holmes. I want you inside me when I come. I want you to feel it, want you to fill me with your cock, your come. Want these sheets soaked with my come, with yours dripping down my leg. Now Sherlock!" John Watson knew the power of words in bed, too.

The fingers, the man's whole body, had stilled. But as John closed his mouth, it was like someone had thrown a switch. A third finger was shoved inside and Sherlock's torso was bent over his back. John felt kisses, licks, lips rubbing, nipping at the nape of his neck. Finally!

The fingers left his ass, and he felt movement behind him, heard the sound of the lid of the lube clicking open and closed. Heard the filthy squelching noise of Sherlock's hand spreading the slickness on his own cock. Hand wiped on the sheet then gripping his hip. John was holding his breath, trying to stay relaxed, trying to not to scream.

He felt the head line up with his hole. Felt the spongy softness press delicately, rub around the rim.

"Goddammit Sherlock!" Voice breaking. "Fuck me already." And he tilted back himself, sliding his ass onto Sherlock's cock. The breath gusted out of his lungs and his arms gave out as he fell forward, taking his weight onto his shoulders. They both stopped moving then, giving John a moment to adjust.

It didn't take long. He wanted this, no one would ever understand how badly he wanted this, wanted this man. Wanted his skin and his sweat and his come all over him. Wanted to soak in it.

Finally giving into his natural impatience, Sherlock started moving again. Pushed in slowly, bottoming out into John with a grunt, hand squeezing John's hip, breath stuttering in his chest.

He pulled out, pushed back in. Did this a couple of times, adjusting the angle of entry each time until a scream from John and the arching of his back told Sherlock he'd found the spot. He gently, steadily slid in and out, carefully maintaining the right angle. Breaking John down a stroke at a time.

It didn't take long before Sherlock knew he was close. He didn't analyze why, but he wanted them to come together. Wanted to feel John's muscles spasming around his cock as it emptied into the smaller man's body. He felt his sack tightening up, drawing closer to his own body each time it swung forward against John's ass. He reached around, gripping John's erection, squeezing, stroking the heated flesh.

"Are you close, John?"

"Yes. Yes. So close. Sherlock...ung, Sherlock."

Losing his rhythm, he gave one last hard stroke to that cock and felt it erupt. It triggered his own climax. He pushed all the way in, letting John's muscles milk his cock dry as his hand returned the favor.

He leaned forward again, kissing, licking the sweat from John's back when the other man's knees finally gave out. Falling flat to the bed pulled Sherlock's softening cock out. John lay there, dazed, struggling to breath.

His own breath was ragged, but he remembered John's earlier words. He brought his hands forward, gently gripped John's cheeks and pulled them apart. Saw the hole there still spasming sporadically, saw the milky white fluid dripping out in stops and starts. It drizzled down John's sack in a slow trickle, following the lines of his body down to soak into the sheets. Some part of Sherlock thought that he'd never wash these sheets, thought he'd store them away forever. Protection against a day he might not have this anymore. He could pull them out and touch the dried patches of their mingled fluids, smell them, rub his face against them. He'd buy John a nicer set to replace these. John might appreciate a higher thread count now that he was going to be spending a lot of time with his knees dug into the fabric.

"I can hear you thinking from here, Sherlock. Shut up and come here."

"You're surprisingly bossy in bed, John. Dominating from the bottom, hmmm?" he drawled as he dropped down beside his partner. Wrapping long arms around the smaller man, dipping his head to kiss a shoulder rubbed pink by the rough sheets. Definitely a higher thread count, then.

"The burden of the small, I suppose. We're always dominating from the bottom."

"I like you small. I like you."

Mouth back on his shoulder, John buried his head in the other's sweaty mop of hair.

"I like you, too. Sherlock Holmes. I like you, too."

Damp and sated, wrapped together, they fell asleep. John never knew where those sheets disappeared to. Disappearing sheets were the least of it when living with Sherlock Holmes. He never complained about the ones that replaced them, though. White, Egyptian cotton, 1000 thread count. And monogrammed at the top...a gray and shining "S" and "J".


End file.
